


Aftermath

by scoopity_poop



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Depression, Disassociation, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Hermione is doing her best, I'm Bad At Everything, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romione is background - Freeform, Sassy Pansy Parkinson, especially me, everyone is sad, harry is a little bitch, more characters will show up - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-02 07:42:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20272375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scoopity_poop/pseuds/scoopity_poop
Summary: Harry didn't want to go back to Hogwarts. Not after the war, not after what happened. The castle will remind him of nothing but the blood that was shed, the horrible body count, and the fact that everything is his fault. But he goes back anyways, and somehow, things don't go how he imagined.AKA this is my first time actually publishing anything on this website. It's also my first time for this fandom. I also have no beta, or alpha, or any of those other fancy things that decent writers have. I wrote this is one day, and I don't know what I'm doing. I'm sorry if this is the epitome of flaming dumpster trash.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: there are mentions (quite a lot of mentions) of disassociation and flashbacks to not so great stuff. If you've been through violent trauma, or generally don't do great with this kind of thing, I would recommend trying a different, more well written fic.
> 
> Anyways I proofread this once and it's still trash. I'm sorry in advance. Proceed with caution.

For seven years, Hogwarts had been a sanctuary for Harry. Yes, the Dark Lord had managed to infiltrate the school on an almost yearly basis, but the formidable castle had become his home. It had been the one place he felt safe. And then the war had happened, and everything had been tore away. It wasn’t extraordinary; everyone returning to Hogwarts must’ve felt some sort of trepidation. Everyone had memories of the tragedies that occurred. Everyone had lost someone.

Still, most people probably didn’t have blood on their hands. At least, not as much blood as Harry. So much innocent blood… and there he went, feeling sorry for himself. Playing the victim.

Harry sighed inwardly, trying to school his features into a façade of nonchalance, as he leaned back against the cushioned seat of the train. Around him, his friends chatted. It was nothing like the exuberant, vibrant clamor that had been the trademark of previous train rides to Hogwarts; everyone was nervous, and Harry didn’t doubt that. But they all seemed… so relaxed. No, that wasn’t the right word. Prepared.

Hermione sat across from him, a book on advanced potions balanced precariously on her knees. She wasn’t reading, at least, not anymore; she was smiling – actually smiling – at the person next to Harry. Her lips were moving, but cocooned in his haze of thoughts, Harry couldn’t hear her. All his senses agreed to take in was the motion of her laughter, her chest shaking jubilantly, eyes crinkling up, before relaxing back into the grip of the arm around her waist. Ron’s arm. Harry knew that the two had been involved ever since the war, but he wasn’t sure to what extent. That was somewhat pathetic, he thought, as he had spent the summer at the Weasley’s, watching mutely as the red haired clan picked up their shattered remnants and pieced themselves back together. Hermione had been there too, sometimes. She technically had shared a room with Ginny, but she had spent a lot more time with Ron, in his Chudley Cannon themed attic room.

Ginny. Harry glanced around the compartment. She wasn’t there. Of course she wasn’t. They had been dating, Ginny and Harry, and now they weren’t. Harry still remembered the night, sitting out in the back garden together, staring at the stars. Ginny had looked at him, tried to catch his eye, but he had remained steadfast. He couldn’t let her catch sight of his tears as she told him that she couldn’t do this anymore, that it was hard enough to be there for her family and herself, that she couldn’t be there for him too. Not like she had been before.

They were still friends, to the extent that Harry was still friends with anyone anymore. Small talk was made, and he was not oblivious to the concerned and sympathetic glances that seemed to follow him around the Burrow. For the most part, however, Harry was left to grieve. Everyone was. The war had left the wizarding world in shambles. It was too soon to relive the atrocities or try to move on. Ron had tried once, cajoling Harry and Hermione into his room, and saying that they needed to talk. That was all that it had taken to shatter the illusion of normality that had been created. Hermione had burst into tears, burrowing into Ron’s side more than Harry had thought was possible, and Harry… well, he had ceased to be present. That happened a lot in recent days. He wasn’t disassociating, he didn’t think, just drifting. It was Harry’s way of coping, letting go of the present and detaching himself from the situation. If he was detached, there was nothing to worry about. If he wasn’t really there, then there was no reason to cry. If he let himself drift for long enough, the frigid reality of the war became more of a twisted day dream, something that Harry could banish from his mind in favor of a reality where no one died, where he lived with his parents in his home and Fred was back and no one was hurting and everything was okay.

The only problem with the daydreaming was that he had to come back.

Harry shook himself. He glanced around the compartment again, searching the faces of his friends for signs that they had noticed his movement. There were none. Harry allowed himself to relax as much as he ever did, and scanned the faces again, this time in hopes of catching a good memory.

Ron was laughing now, and at something that Seamus had said. Seamus was next to Harry, and his boisterous Irish commentary was almost enough to break through to Harry. Almost. But Dean was tucked into his side, mirroring Hermione, and that only served as a reminder that everyone was pairing up now, finding someone to lick their wounds, and that Harry was left with only his mind. At some other point, that might have been okay. At some other point, most, in fact, Harry had believed that his mind could get him through most things. Previously, his mind had been a resource, providing the potential opposing side to an argument or quandary Harry was puzzling through. Now, the only thing Harry’s mind wanted to bring up was the war, and the blood, and the fucking screams, and the fact that it had been all his fault. While debatable in truth, none of those things were very helpful, and that was why Harry very much wanted to be with someone; in fact, he wanted that almost as much as he wanted to be alone. Almost. That was the key word.

Harry glanced down. His hands were shaking. He fisted them in his robes, forcing his nerves to stop clattering like a bag of bones. An instinct prodded at his barriers, and he glanced up to find everyone’s gaze settled directly on him. Harry cleared his throat.

“Wh-what?” He managed, his voice crackling dryly against the roof of his mouth.

“Train’s stopped, mate”. Ron informed him, at the same time as Hermione asked if he was okay. Harry said that he was. He was very much okay. Hermione’s warm brown eyes filled with a sheen of pity, and Harry wrenched his eyes away to focus on rising and following Dean’s back out of the compartment. That was all he saw as he trudged off the train, and when Seamus teasingly asked if he was enjoying the view, Harry just stared at him blankly until everyone looked away. That was the one benefit of being the Saviour, Harry thought. People stopped asking questions.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco heads back to Hogwarts. Pansy is the sassy queen she has always been. Shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't exactly what it was supposed to be. But there's some Draco POV, so that's pretty exciting. I've already revisited this chapter once to edit, so if you read this twice for some reason and it isn't exactly the same, well, there is a reason. I like to think I'm making things better.
> 
> No trigger warnings for this one!

Something rattled. The darkness that enveloped Draco slowly merged into the dim red glow that he recognized as the semi-blackness behind his eyelids. He had been dreaming, but about what? Draco didn’t remember. His whole body was shaking slightly, involuntarily, and his head was supported by something firm. A leg, maybe. Draco didn’t remember that either. He was… he was…

“Draco, darling, we’re almost there.” He felt a gentle slap on the side of his face, light and playful. Draco pried his eyelids apart, and was greeted with the sight of a dingy but relatively well maintained ceiling. It was low, and it, like Draco himself, was swaying slightly.

Draco was on a train. The train to Hogwarts, to be more specific. And he was laying with his head in Pansy’s lap.

Draco shot straight up like a hot cannon, his platinum hair, usually so organized, sticking up haphazardly in the back. Needles speared themselves into the inside of his skull, and he winced, automatically bringing a hand up to his forehead. The headache he had been harboring earlier was returning, and with depressing vigor. Glancing over at the figure beside him, Draco recognized a familiar smirk twisting pale lips. Pansy was already in her Hogwarts robes. The dark fabric was rumpled around her legs, obviously a product of his unseemly nap, and her hands were folded neatly. She looked rather pleased with herself, and Draco glowered at her.

“Good to see you looking so chipper.” The brunette commented, and Draco sniffed disdainfully.

“You look pretty good yourself.” He retorted, eyeing Pansy’s robes and the dark, puffy bags under her eyes. Draco himself was well aware that he didn’t look much better; none of the purebloods had fared well during and after the war. Not that anyone had. He sighed.

“Oh darling, we both know we look beautiful.” Pansy said quietly, offering a surprisingly genuine smile.

“Says you.” Draco snorted. “Is that a wig you’ve got on, or does your hair always look that bad?”

“Well at least my hair doesn’t look by it’s been hit by a tropical storm.” Pansy retorted, crossing her arms primly across her flat chest.

“Fair enough.” Draco replied, leaning back into his seat. The plush cushioning was surprisingly comfortable despite its years, and Draco found himself somehow enjoying it. “A storm might be good for you, actually. Clear up your complexion.”

Pansy shot the expression equivalent of bloody daggers at him. “Well it’s not my fault I’m a normal person who has normal skin like everybody else, and you look like a bloody model.”

Draco snickered mercilessly. “You should work on that, Pans. How are you going to get girls when you look diseased?”

“Yeah, well… your skin tone is like uncooked dough.”

“Is not!”

“Bloody well is!”

Bantering with Pansy was one of the few things Draco had retained from his previous life. The Manor had been taken as evidence by the Ministry, his mother had moved to France, and his father would be moldering away in Azkaban until the day he died. Spending the last three months staying with the Parkinsons hadn’t been exactly wonderful, given all of the lovely “stress headaches” Draco had been given the gift of experiencing, but at least his friendship with Pansy hadn’t fallen apart as well. Speaking of headaches, Pansy’s voice was making the one that was making itself at home behind Draco’s temples even worse, which he hadn’t thought possible.

“Oh, shut up Pans.” Draco sighed, stretching out on the bench, resting his head uncomfortably against the exterior wall and propping his legs up on Pansy. She shoved him off.

“You’re just bitter that I’m right.” She smirked, stomping on one of Draco’s feet as he tried to move his feet back up to her lap. “Now get off me! The train’s gonna stop any second and you’re still laying there looking like a right muggle.”

Draco treated her to a sour stare, which she returned boldly.

“Fine,” He muttered, swinging his legs down for good and righting himself. “Get out.”

“’Scuse me?” Pansy asked indignantly, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. Her brows furrowed menacingly. “What’re you playing at?”

“I’m changing.” Draco snapped back. His headache was rightly pounding now, and he was no longer in the mood for Pansy’s sass.

“Can’t you just go to the bathrooms, you know, like everyone else?”

“No. We Malfoy’s don’t use public bathrooms.” Draco half joked. He just wanted Pansy to get out of there so he could take off his uncomfortable jeans and get changed before the train stopped. Going back to the bloody school was bad enough, and being late to the first day feast wasn’t going to help anything.

“What d’you do then, shit in the woods? Very regal of you.” Pansy commented sarcastically, snickering. “Fine, fine. Be prissy then. I’ll go scout out Theo. He’s around here somewhere. Wonder if Blaise is with him too…”

Draco groaned. “Theo’s coming back too? And Blaise?” He slapped a melodramatic hand to his forehead. “Pans, you need to tell me stuff like this! I wouldn’t’ve have come.”

“I did tell you.” Pansy said matter-of-factly, flicking his shoulder with a manicured finger. “I guess you were too busy sulking in my guestroom to notice.”

“Can’t believe you didn’t tell me.” Draco responded, smirking at his friend, then flapping a hand at her. “Now shoo.”

Pansy sighed dramatically and stood up, dusting off her robes. “Wanker.” She called over her shoulder, favoring him to a signature devilish smile as she turned to go.

“Twatface.”

“Love you too.”

The door shut. Draco sighed heavily, and laid back down across the seat. He probably had a couple of minutes before he absolutely had to get ready. Pansy was always exaggerating like this, she-

“Now!”

Draco groaned, and dragged himself up from the sinfully comfortable seat. He began sliding off his jeans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, let me in on any blatant errors I might've made. I am my own beta, and I'm a pretty shitty one at that. I did my best to make the dialogue British, but as a very much non-British person, I can see where that might've gone wrong.
> 
> I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up, but probably soon. I still don't know what an update schedule is, so I'm essentially winging it. I do have about a chapter and a half written at this point, but I don't really like it, so I'll probably end up scrapping it and starting again. All feedback is lovely, especially the nasty stuff. Trolls are very much welcome here.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hogwarts kicks off another year with the usual opening feast. It doesn't go as smoothly as planned. Of course it doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is a description of a panic attack in this chapter, as well as a description of some gore (mostly just blood).

Dinner was bad. Worse than Harry had expected, actually. There was another table present in the Great Hall this year, all the way at the back. It was as if the staff of Hogwarts wanted to hide away the fact that a war had torn a year’s worth of students away, then dragged them back, like bedraggled cats out of a storm. Harry sat between Ron and Hermione; or more they sat on either side of him, after he had wearily taken his place at the table. Harry’s peripheral vision let him in on the knowing glances they both exchanged and then directed on him. Something was telling. He straightened his face as best as possible, but that only seemed to make the looks intensify. Harry wanted very badly to just stop trying.

If the eighth year table was the saddest, then the Slytherin table was a close runner up. Students of all ages had refrained from returning, for good reason, surely, but the table under the silver and green banners suffered by the far the most casualties. It would not be a stretch to describe it as barren, and the reception it got was far from pretty.

Most people, as far as Harry could tell, were doing their best to pretend that the rather infamous table didn’t exist. Most everyone threw subtle glances over their shoulders at the rag tag assortment of people that came back, but other than that remained silent. Others did not have such an inconspicuous approach. A fair number of people, especially from the Gryffindor table, were glaring harshly at the remaining Slytherins. The sorting was particularly brutal. Every time the word “Slytherin” was shrieked out into the cavernous hall, it echoed for a bit, before receiving halfhearted applause. Harry witnessed one girl, sporting long brown tresses, crying softly into her hands as she made her way to the Slytherin table.

The dinner itself was marginally better. After a few minutes of solemn chewing, the expected chatter rose up from the students and hovered over the tables, cloaking the Great Hall like a thick cloud. It was, however, not the banter that Harry had come to love more and more with each opening banquet. The voices in the hall quivered, and carried with them the anxieties of their owners. A sense of tension that was not usually present asserted itself, trumping any excitement or hope for the new year that might’ve existed. The food, as delicious as ever, was somewhat soured by the atmosphere, and Harry wasn’t the only one who seemed more than willing to leave the Great Hall once the finally tarts and pastries vanished from the shimmering plates.

Jogging up the stone steps towards the location of the new eighth year common room felt somewhat like fleeing, and Harry forced his feet to slow down to a quick walk. Hermione caught up to him.

“Harry, are you okay? You practically sprinted out of the Great Hall, it was like you were-“

“I’m just tired, ‘Mione.” Harry reluctantly met her eyes. They bored into him. “Long day, you know?”

“That’s for sure.” A rather weary looking Ron appeared behind them, and slung his arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “Strange to be back here, isn’t it? You can always talk to us, you know, Harry.”

Harry felt Ron’s eyes on the side of his face but he didn’t look; he could only deal with so much prying sympathy at once. “Yeah,” He agreed, bringing a tired hand up to his forehead and carding it through his hair. “Maybe later. Once we get some decent sleep.” He shot Ron a weak smile, which the tall redhead returned.

The entrance to the eighth year common room was located behind a rusty suit of armor. Hermione quickly spoke the new password, quicksilver, and a section of the stone wall slid aside.

It was not what Harry expected. There was no telltale explosion of color and life, as there had been in the Gryffindor common room. Four small banners lined one wall, each denoting one of the four house. Harry’s eyes took in a motley crew of overstuffed armchairs, sagging couches, and rickety end tables, arranged precariously around a dark stone fire place and a wall of windows. The room itself seemed to be a classroom transformed into a living area. Two doors on one end of the room suggested dormitories beyond. The homey, intimate feel of it all was stifling. More than anything else, it just wasn’t Gryffindor.

Harry’s mind ran away with that, taunting him with memories of playing magical chess with Ron in the light of a setting sun, chased by late night study sessions. Scoldings from Hermione, parties after Quidditch games. Harry’s ears rung with faded cheers the warped into screams, then faded to nothing at all. He realized that Ron was waved a hand in front of his face, and he blinked.

“You sure you’re okay mate?” Ron asked, concern darkening his freckled features. Harry nodded.

“Fine, yeah. Just…” He cleared his throat, and glanced around the room. “Brings back memories.” Harry let his eyes meet Ron’s. The redhead was nodding, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. He looked so old now. He was no longer the gangly, clueless kid Harry met on Platform 9 ¾. If first year Harry had seen a picture of Ron now, he wouldn’t have recognized him.

This is what war does, Harry thought, quite suddenly. I don’t know him anymore. I don’t know anyone anymore.

Faintly, he was aware that Hermione was talking. Something about chimneys and being on the fourth floor. Harry wasn’t taking it in.

“I’m… I’m headed off. To bed.” Harry mumbled, detaching himself from his two friends and hurrying across the common room. He was aware that he was almost running again. He seemed to run a lot now. The Savior of the Wizarding World wasn’t so brave after all. He survived the Dark Lord but couldn’t manage to set foot in his new common room without practically pissing himself.

Chased by the hurricane of thoughts forming in his head, Harry wrenched the door to the boy’s dorms open and slipped inside. A narrow hallway presented itself – what room had Ron mentioned again? Third on the right. Two beds, with familiar red drapes. Harry felt nausea pool in his stomach and start crawling up his throat. How many people had laid in beds identical to those in front of him? How many of this people were dead. A sound tried to escape him, but it died in his mouth.

The bathroom now, all white sheen and cool tile. Just a bathroom. Just like the bathroom. That bathroom. Where Harry had nearly killed someone. Harry had almost killed someone and it had been Malfoy, shouldn’t he be happy, but god no he was the furthest thing from happy because now the only thing he could see what the blood, dark and sticky, seeping out of the platinum haired boy’s body, and Malfoy himself, writhing, fucking writhing on the floor in the agony that he, Harry Potter, had created. Wasn’t he supposed to be a savior? Wasn’t he supposed to be the fucking answer to all of this? And now he was crying, choked sobs, and the bile rose back up in his throat, not asking to come out but demanding it, screaming at him like all the voices in his mind, the voices of all the people that died because of him, the people he killed.

Harry sunk down onto his knees. It was not graceful; even in the midst of the attack, some small, detached part of him knew he would have bruises later. But the blood… all that blood had been spilled, and all because of him. He had watched the life drain out of so many people and what had he done? Nothing. All the funerals Harry had ever attended were swarming the forefront of his mind. Women in black veils, the dark lace concealing their tear stained faces. Men in hats, heads bowed. The children, god the fucking children, all they could do was cry because they hardly knew what death meant and here they were, mourning someone. Someone had died. So many people had. And it was his fault. Their blood was on his hands and he could’ve done more. He always could’ve done more. There was someone calling his name but it didn’t matter. They were dead. They were all dead. He should be dead too.

Ron and Dean sat on the floor beside Harry, Ron rubbing his back while the raven haired boy shook. Harry knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the sink.

“How often does he get like this?” Dean asked quietly, his voice breaking the tense silence of the bathroom.

“I… I don’t know.” Ron muttered, staring down at the floor. “He just keeps to himself, you know? Doesn’t want anyone around him. Told him it wasn’t healthy but he doesn’t care. I… don’t know what to do.”

“I don’t think anyone does.”

“Well, then what the bloody hell do we do?”

“We…” Dean trailed off. When he finally glanced back up at Ron, his eyes seemed glazed. “I don’t know what we do.” He said simply.

Silence returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... the uploading process has become a little more complicated for me. But I'm still doing it!
> 
> I've got six chapters written, including the three I've posted. I've also got writer's block. Great.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pansy Parkinson manages to finally escape to the peace and quiet of her own dorm room, after an exhausting first day. Enter her new roommate. Enter Hermione Granger.
> 
> AKA I'm soft for PansyxHermione.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The posting complication is now gone! Therefore, I'm posting a new chapter. In celebration. Also, I just really love writing this.
> 
> No trigger warnings for this chapter.

Pansy collapsed onto her bed. The silky green folds enveloped her, and she sank into them gratefully. She closed her eyes and flung an arm over her face, completely blocking out the world. With the cool fabric of the duvet against her skin, and the muffled murmuring of students beyond the confines of the girls’ dorm, it was easy to pretend that she was back in Slytherin, sharing a dorm room with Millicent and a couple other stoic teenage girls. Memories of muggle party games, truth or dare and never have I ever, played in the dead of night, accompanied by smuggled fire whiskey, berated Pansy’s mind. In the past, thinking of the “good old times” would’ve been a nice escape. Now, it just made her want to cry.

It had been a long day.

Dinner had been miserable. Sitting at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall had never been easy, especially as the years had drawn on, but this had been a whole new low. Stares had pierced Pansy’s back like jagged icicles, and she knew that others had felt them as well. Draco had been seated next to her, already pale face bleached white, stock still. When a newly sorted Slytherin came to the table in tears, Pansy had to put Draco’s hand in an iron grip under the table so that he wouldn’t bolt. His expression had said it all.

Pansy rolled over and pressed her face into the emerald duvet. From outside her room, she heard some sort of commotion. It didn’t matter to her. She knew it wasn’t Draco, because Draco was currently out on the Quidditch pitch. He had been an absolute wreck after dinner, nothing like the snarky and composed Draco that Pansy had bantered with on the train. With her eyes closed, Pansy could see his pale hands shaking slightly, and an expression of pent up emotion twisting his face. Draco hadn’t been angry, per say, mostly stressed and in dire need of a quiet place to unwind away from everyone else. So Pansy had suggested heading out to the pitch. The tall, pale boy, as he was still a boy in Pansy’s mind, had nodded curtly. To anyone else, he probably would’ve looked just as tense as before. But Pansy knew him better than that; she had known him for years, and she watched a portion of the anxiety drain out of his face. Not all of it; that would take far longer, but even the promise of a path of escape was enough to relieve some of the pressure mounting inside him.

Pansy had been invited to join him. She had said no, knowing full well that if she came along, the unwinding would be lessened for both of them. She knew that Draco knew that as well, and that it was only the pureblood manners that had been carved into them since the day they were born that compelled him to make the offer. Pansy sometimes wished they didn’t have to play that game anymore. Voldemort was gone. But things lingered, and no one was quite ready to let go, Pansy included.

A quiet knocking at the dormitory door breached Pansy’s thoughts. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, glancing over at the slab of oak. Of course there was someone else coming. The number of eighth years was fairly small, but not small enough for everyone to have their own rooms. Pansy just hoped that her roommate wasn’t some unbearable Gryffindor like Granger.  
“What do you want?” Pansy called out, too tired and drained to walk the few feet to the door to greet whoever the hell she was going to be rooming with in person.

“Um, this is room 803, yes?” A tentative voice asked. It was muffled, but sounded deviously familiar. Pansy groaned.

“Yep.” She responded shortly, and the door opened. A cautious, bushy haired silhouette stood in the door. Even in the dim light of the room, Pansy could make out the Gryffindor emblem on the girl’s robes, and the righteous mountain of books in her arms.

“Hello Granger.” Pansy said coldly, pushing herself up to sit properly on her bed, fixing her new roommate with a blank and hopefully intimidating stare. “I just knew it’d be someone like you.”

“What, your new roommate? Yes, well,” The Granger girl walked over to the second bed, the one closer to the door, and carefully placed her stack of reading on the nightstand. “I can understand why you might not be totally thrilled by this arrangement-“

“No way.”

“But I hope that we can put our differences behind us.” The girl walked over and extended a hand. “Hermione Granger.”

“I know who you are.” Pansy replied slowly, staring at Granger’s hand. Her nails were cut short, and neatly rounded off. And the girl wanted to shake? Pansy wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the situation.

“Yes, well, I thought that a reintroduction might be in order, no?” Pansy let her gaze flit up to the girl’s face, taking in the sincerity in her eyes and the determined set of her jaw. Was a Gryffindor seriously sassing her, in her own dorm room?

“I… I see.” Pansy managed, swallowing dryly. She stared at the Granger girl for another moment, then, slowly, took her hand. Granger’s palm was dry, but surprisingly soft. The fingers that wrapped themselves around Pansy’s hand were gentle and delicate. Pansy found herself glancing down at the Gryffindor’s hand, which wasn’t at all what she had expected. Not that she had ever thought about Granger’s hands before. But there were no callouses, no long, painted nails. That wasn’t the hand of someone who had gone to war and come out on the winning side. Inspecting the newcomer’s hand more closely, Pansy noticed a small doodle, probably a rune or something, on the back of her hand. Granger cleared her throat.

Pansy’s eyes jolted back up to the other girl’s face. Granger was smiling at her, a small smile that contained absolutely no malice but made Pansy violently uncomfortable all the same. Maybe she wasn’t used to people smiling at her nicely anymore. She’d have to bring that up with Draco.

“Um.” Was all Pansy could manage.

“Spacey? Yeah, me too. Everyone’s been all over the place since, well, the war.” Granger’s tone was kind and conversational, and carried no traces of condescension. She shook Pansy’s hand, then let go. Pansy let her hand, still tingling from Granger’s touch, fall limply onto the duvet, still staring at Granger. Suddenly embarrassed, she blinked, and looked away. 

“Yeah, well... Pansy Parkinson” She said gruffly, deciding the best strategy was to pretend that none of that had happened. “But you already knew that.”

“Yes, but now we’re properly introduced.” The bushy haired girl sounded surprisingly cheerful. “Can I call you Pansy?”

An icy wave of shock worked its way through Pansy’s veins. Her? Pansy Parkinson? Being addressed by her given name? And by a Gryffindor?

“Well…” Pansy faltered. Her mouth felt dry, like the time Blaise had shoved a handful of sand down her throat, back when they were kids. She had choked there, out in the sand box at the park, unable to breathe until her father ran out and slammed a fist into her back. It wasn’t the last time that happened. “I guess I can’t stop you.”

The Granger girl smiled again. “I’ll take that as a yes. You can call me Hermione as well, if you’re comfortable.” Her damn smile somehow got wider and even more genuine. “Well, Pansy, it’s lovely meeting you again, after all this.”

Pansy stared. It seemed to be a nasty habit she was developing. But who could blame her, when a bloody Gryffindor girl said her name like that. “Yeah, you too.” She responded absently.

“Well, I’ll let you get some sleep. Big day and all, with classes starting tomorrow. Do you want to use the bathroom, or am I okay to take a quick bath?”

Bath. The Gr- Hermione was going to take a bath. Pansy wasn’t sure if this was significant, but her mind was making it out to be so. What did her mind know anyways?

“Yeah, uh, I mean, no. No you’re good.” Pansy cut herself off before she could splutter out anything else. Somehow unperturbed, Hermione simply nodded perkily and turned to her own bed, scooping up what appeared to be pajamas before padding off towards the bathroom. 

“Night, Pansy!” She called over her shoulder.

Pansy watched the bathroom door swing shut, unable to respond. Her mind had somehow gotten lost a couple minutes ago, and it was still trying to catch up.

She let herself fall back onto her bed, pulling part of her duvet over her torso and nudging the curtains around her bed shut with a foot. She was sharing a room with Granger. Hermione Granger.

For not the first time that day, Pansy had no clue what to expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okey dokey, feedback and other random comments are always welcome! Sorry that my girl ship showed up first, this started out as Drarry and will always be Drarry, but other ships deserve love too.
> 
> Also, in case you hadn't noticed, Romione is not endgame. I don't really ship it at all, so... if that's what you came for, this isn't the fic for you.
> 
> I've got two more chapters written, and I'm getting ready to tackle my writer's block and start another one soon.


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry stumbles upon essentially the last room in the castle that he wants to see. Then Malfoy shows up, and somehow, things get even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello y'all I'm baaaack. I had a Monday - Thursday update schedule thingy, and then I updated two days in a row, and now it's Wednesday, so... yeah. My first and most likely last attempt at an update schedule has just gone out the window.
> 
> Anyways, the isn't much of a trigger warning on this bad boy. There's mentions of anxiety and panic attacks, and then there's some gratuitous yelling, but other than that, I think we're all clear. Let me know if I'm wrong on that.

“Harry, when are you going to do something about this?” Hermione asked, for at least the third time. She and Harry were seated in two of the armchairs in the new common room. Harry felt like he was being interrogated. The bushy haired girl across from him, well, more of a woman now, had her arms crossed and was staring him straight in the face. If Harry hadn’t know her better, he’d have thought she was furious. However, the only thing behind her caramel eyes was the familiar light of concern. Harry could barely look at her.

“’Mione, I’m fine!” He assured her, a little more forcefully than was probably necessary, and sighed at the knowing look she gave him. “I’m okay. Seriously. It… that just happens sometimes. It’s fine. S’not a big deal.”

“You’re mumbling.” Hermione informed him gently. Her hand settled on top of Harry’s as she reached across the stained coffee table towards him. Harry tried not to flinch. It didn’t work, of course, like many of the things he did those days, and he felt Hermione’s eyes on his face. Pity emanated from her in waves. Harry wanted none of it.

“’Mione, I’ve got to go to class.” Harry rose, shaking off his friend’s touch.

“But we don’t-“

Harry mumbled something about a special course and moved away from Hermione, weaving through the maze of furniture. Pushing open the door, he practically collapsed into the hallway, nearly knocking over the suit of armor. It had been three days since what Luna was calling a panic attack. Three days since his friends found him crying on the bathroom floor, making an utter fool of himself.

Harry flung his energy towards getting somewhere, anywhere, that wasn’t near the eighth year common room. Being there meant thinking about what had happened, which meant thinking about the war, which inevitably led back to what Harry swore he saw that evening. Draco Malfoy’s prone form, slumped on the floor.

Did Malfoy even come back? Harry wasn’t sure; he’d spent the past three days in a fog of classroom and Dreamless Sleep draught and trying to forget everything that was seared into his mind’s eye. Walking now, things seemed easier. Harry could barely feel his feet underneath him. He had no idea where he was going until he was pushing open a door and stumbling into a small, dimly lit room. Harry muttered a quick “lumos” and almost fell over backwards. He was in the bathroom. The bloody sixth floor bathroom.

“No, no, no fucking way.” Harry mumbled to himself, panic flooding his chest, willing his feet to carry him backwards. Of course he had to end up there. Of course he did. He just had to end up in the last bloody place he wanted to be.

Harry slammed the door shut with strength he didn’t know he possessed, then promptly leaned back against the cool wood. This can’t be happening. Thoughts that had previously been settled at the back of his mind picked themselves up and began whirling around his head, skirting off the inside of his skull and forming a familiar tornado.

This can’t be happening. Not again. Harry knew, just knew, that if he turned around now, Malfoy would be back in that bathroom, staining the tiles a horrifying shade of crimson. And Harry would stand over him again, motionless, frozen in his building terror. Just like last time, he would stand there, witnessing what he had done, witnessing someone bleed out by his own hands. But this time, no one would, and the blood would keep coming, and coming, and-

“What’re you gawking at, Potter?”

Harry’s eyes snapped up. The memory that had glazed his mind retreated, leaving him hollow and breathless. A shape was making its way down the hall towards him. A tall shape. A blonde shape.

“L-leave me alone Malfoy.” Harry rasped. He had intended for it to come out as a menacing growl, but instead, he sounded asthmatic. Great.

“Why should I?” Malfoy asked. He was closer now, and he had come to a halt in front of Harry. Even at the slight distance, Harry could pick out changes in Malfoy, the slightly grown out hair, the hollowed cheeks, the dull shine of his silver eyes. “Scared, Potter?”

“You wish.” Harry retorted, straightening up. He hadn’t even realized he had been sliding down the door until Malfoy disturbed his thoughts. “Now would you leave me alone for once?”

“Oh, so wanting to use the bloody bathroom is a crime now?” Draco asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And in case you didn’t remember, I believe you were the one stalking me during what, all of sixth year? You hardly have grounds to ask me to leave you alone.”

Despite the blonde’s familiar tone, Malfoy’s words didn’t carry their usual bite. Maybe it was the fatigue the lurked in his grey eyes, or the slightly bent way he carried himself, as if he was trying to fold inwards. No matter the case, Malfoy didn’t provoke Harry as much as he usually would.

Harry muttered something about being a bloody git and brushed past Malfoy, shoulder checking him as he whirled away down the hall.

“Ah, so I see your new family hasn’t taught you any manners.” Malfoy called after him. Harry ignored him. “That’s not surprising at all, really, they are Weasleys after all. And they claim to be purebloods.”

Something about that got to Harry. “Oh, so you have much better manners, Draco. Last time I checked, trying to murder someone and tormenting an entire school for seven years is hardly good manners.”

Malfoy’s cheeks were flushed, slightly. Harry thought absently that if Malfoy was anyone else, he might be pretty like that. “What the hell did you just call me?” He asked, advancing on Harry, one hand tucked inside his robes, probably reaching for his wand.

Harry clenched his jaw. A familiar lick of anger was rising up from the pit inside of him. “You heard me, Draco. I think after all the shit you’ve put me through, I probably know you well enough to be on a first name basis.” Malfoy’s flush deepened.

“You know nothing.” The blonde spat, seething. He pulled out his wand and only came to a stop when Harry pulled his out as well, leveling the tip with Malfoy’s throat with a surprisingly steady hand.

“I know that you’re a sorry git who genuinely believes that purebloods are the rightful rules of the Earth and that everyone else deserves to lick their fucking shoes.” Harry said, feeling the rage now boiling up inside of him threatening to spill over. “And I know that you’ve have everything handed to you your whole life, and that you have no idea what it’s like to- to hurt.” Harry paused to take a deep breath. He would’ve continued, but Malfoy took advantage of the momentary silence to absolutely explode.

“You- you honestly think I don’t know what it’s like? To fucking suffer? I did everything I could to protect them but they couldn’t care less about me. You think I had a bloody option? If you honestly think that I agree with that deranged piece of – oh fuck this, fuck you.”

With that, Malfoy spun on his heel and began storming off down the hall, back in the direction from which he’d come. Harry tucked his wand away, just for the moment, and hurried after him.

“Wait, Malfoy-“

The blonde turned. “Stay away from me!” He screamed, his face completely contorted by fury. He was unrecognizable. Harry stopped, silenced by shock. Malfoy spun around again and continued his rampage down the hall. Harry watched him go.

Drained, suddenly, Harry slumped back against a door. The air in the hall felt deadened now, cold and empty now that the tension previously filling it was gone. He listened as sharp, angry footsteps eventually faded, as the last echoes ricocheted off the stone walls. As the sounds fell away, Harry found himself reaching behind him and fumbling with the handle of the door. His previous anxiety was returning. The hall was too still, too quiet. Finally turning the handle, Harry swung around and opened the door, prepared to hurl himself inside.

The bathroom. Again.

With a groan, Harry slammed the door shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okey dokey, that's that. I'm honestly really not a fan of this chapter, so sorry if it's somehow worse than the rest of this fic. Not gonna lie, I haven't worked on this in a while, so I'm not sure how much farther this will go. I've got another chapter written; more comic relief because even I can't deal with that much angst. Beyond that... well, I'm going to keep working on it and I've got some vague ideas, so hopefully this turns out.
> 
> In other news, I have an idea for another Drarry fic, so if for some reason you feel like reading more trashy trash, watch out for that, I guess. Critics welcome as usual.

**Author's Note:**

> Well... yeah. That happened. Constructive criticism would be godly, and any theories on what happens next would also be nice (mainly because I have zero ideas wtf is happening). Be mean if you wanna be mean, call me a shitlord, I couldn't care less. Also, if I make an abhorrent spelling or grammar errors, feel free to let me know. I will forever be in your debt.
> 
> I've got two more chapters kinda (???) written, and update schedule isn't in my vocabulary so yeah. This should be fun.


End file.
